Altered Preicision
by roguerogue
Summary: Dropped project.
1. Chapter 1

INTRODUCTION

The alley seemed darker than the dulling shade of gray that it usually imposed. Sarimah inhaled a deep breath of smoke, the water from the pipe's jar rumbling patiently. It had become an unusual sound that she came to find comfort in. It was the Day of the Dead, and remembering that it was caused her stomach to turn in a mix of frustration and fear, the effect easily forming a dissatisfied scowl on her face. She pressed her lips together in a visible, childish attempt against rational thought. She told herself that today was not a special day just because it was given a name. The smoke came rushing through her nostrils as she begrudgingly climbed to her feet, carelessly dropping the hose onto the floor of the Students of Shadow. She slipped out of the building, robbing anyone of the opportunity to send a snarky comment her way about misusing the pipe again.

The rogue resumed a stern demeanor once she left the alley, a defense mechanism of sorts that often kept self-entitled magisters at bay, and the overzealous Blood Knights seeking a less bright source of amusement. The citizens never approached her, not regularly.

Out habit, she slipped a hand into the bag strapped securely to her side, feeling up the contents as was her usual routine check if she had her more valuable tools of the trade. '_What a trade_,' she thought, half amused, '_If I had-wait, what's this?_' Her sure footed steps slowed considerably as her eyes shot down to peer inside the bag. '_A vial?_' Sarimah stared at it, trying to remember where she got it from...

She had no time for this! It was dark and those graves weren't coming to visit _her_, that's for sure. Sarimah's gaze remained faithfully glued to the ground upon reaching the main gate of the city, artfully avoiding any eye contact with the guards. She was in no mood for games which expressed their colossal jackassery. Not today, anyway.

The girl's gaze timidly climbed up to take in the night sky. The rogue left the city gates behind now. '_The moon isn't out tonight._' The air was still. Her shoulders slouched for a moment while she let out a disappointed sigh. She was letting it get to her head. Besides, how come _she_ didn't get a day? What made the dead so special anyway? They weren't here. They had left her. They didn't fight hard enough to survive. '_The dead are an inconsiderate people, that's what._' The rogue felt herself swallow hard when her legs launched into a focused pace towards the cemetery, the forced nature of her thoughts only succeeding at forming a regretful lump in her throat. No matter how much she tried to build a resistance against feeling alone, it always backfired. Being the youngest of four siblings at the time of the war did not help her state of maturity. Make that 'lack of maturity.' In fact, she was a down and right brat in most social situations and she knew it.

Sarimah found herself standing in front of five identical stone markers standing rigidly to mark the location of _her_ Fallen. She emitted a nervous giggle, blushing while her eyes anchored themselves to her feet. She could feel the intense crimson of mixed emotions, namely resentment and remorse coat her cheeks. The girl could feel her shoulders stiffen, she could feel her heart aching. Her head tilted to the side as she stood there, stupidly looking down at her boots, her combined courage only being able to thrust her to the cemetery but never to utter even a greeting. She sniffled quietly, surprised to see how quickly her eyes formed the tears then rushed to filter the liquid out of them in the form of what she decided were tears a couple of drops too big. Her mouth opened and a shaky, heavy sigh tore itself from her body. The fingers on her right hand gave a small wave, one that could have easily gone unnoticed as she turned on her heels and headed back towards the city. That same hand was swiftly used to wipe away her tears.

Upon approaching the city gates, the rogue's nimble fingers found themselves gently streaming through her hair, and making sure that her loose bun, one that always threatened to fall apart but never did remained true to its nature. A timid giggle echoed from her throat once her fingers brushed against the new hair pin she had purchased earlier that week.

"You have a way of making hair clips look good, Little Lamb," her father would tease, only to be shot down with a glare from the once younger girl. Since that glare was always accompanied with a wash of scarlet through her face, Sarimah would often find her father grinning in the slightest manner before she stormed away, making sure her mother would hear about how the girl found her father thoroughly repulsive and "abusive".

Not that her mother was any help, really, as she would simply mutter, "You have a little bit of me in you, after all. Lucky girl."

She rolled her shoulders in a manner she had often watched the Orcs do (in utter fascination) while stepping back into the city, hoping that it would intimidate the guards at the gates as much as the Orcs did her. She had already succeeded at winning a few games of chance thanks to a "random" coin she always seemed to pick out at the expense of said guards. It was time to make some plans to poke around the Court of the Sun, or the Farstriders' Square for a new contract, or simply take another beating if cornered somewhere.

She didn't like beatings, nor did she really need to swindle anyone, really, Sarimah simply enjoyed the thrill of possibly being found out. At this point in her life, she could afford some flexibility in accepting contracts with the promise that she would do her job well. The rogue was at least remotely aware of not only the potential danger that lay in being caught, but also of the fact that it was not healthy to have such a stupid pseudo-hobby either. Then again, as a rogue, who cared? She did not, and given certain experiences, she knew that while her pain threshold was low, her stubbornness would at least grant her the illusion of dignity to pass out before she would consider begging for mercy. Usually, the sight of her bloodied, along with a small bag of her gold was enough to bore her disgruntled competitors.

Sarimah ducked into the nearest alley leading back to the Royal Exchange. Renovations were still under way, and the low, relentless banging of hammers did a good enough job of expelling the melancholy from her mind and replace it with a sense of irateness, "_I mean honestly, can't the arcane constructs help with the building instead of only patrolling the city?_"

The rogue grunted quietly, smirking at her own unreasonable stream of consciousness, glad to have found her way back to Murder Row.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 1

The base of her neck cracked quietly once Sarimah stirred from her sleep, her eyes, now a dull shade of fel struggling to remain open against the coaxing embrace of sleep. She loved to sleep. It was, in fact, one thing that she could often simply do as soon as her head landed on a pillow, and if none was available, as soon as she found a comfortable enough position. With a deep sigh, the rogue sat up, stretching her arms over her head while she mentally prepared herself to slip out of the very soft, very warm bed that had been so kind to some healing wounds she had acquired earlier that week. Her eyes glanced down at the pillow longingly. Suddenly she smirked, finding her own theatrics to be oh so amusing, then proceeded to easily slip off of the mattress, and began preparing for her day.

As per her early morning routine, Sarimah looked herself over in the mirror before leaving her room, eyes hardened, and callous fingertips readjusting the straps of her armor to make sure it was snug enough without stifling any of her physical range. Once satisfied, she stepped out into the street, and towards a mailbox.

Sarimah never got mail, and if she did, it was never personal, and often was simply a mention of a potential contract that she was welcome to pursue. Given her philosophies about how gold was all that she needed out of life, as it provided her with the luxuries of constantly maintained weaponry, better poisons, as well as lots of food, checking to see if a job was sent her way not only saved her the trouble of going to find one, but it did well for her ego as well. Petty crime had a tight clasp on her once, one that she slowly tore herself out of. After having done enough of it, was glad that she was at least recognized as a qualified agent of the city, regardless of what she had to do to land such a position. The tips of her ears glowed pink at the thought of how she still had to some downright degrading tasks despite the skills that she worked so hard to hone. "_Disgusting magisters._"

The girl massaged the base of her neck once she neared the mailbox, thankful that at this hour, very few were awake. Her arms dropped to open the box, then reach into it blindly, hoping to feel an envelope, or rolled up parchment. "Mm," she grinned, once she discovered the first. Since no one was around yet (most vendors were closed), she took the liberty to open the envelope, concluding that the sender was none other than one of the objects of possible amusement: Shaelyna Dawnstrike. Sarimah could feel the sides of her mouth tugging upwards as she began to open the letter, wondering what that "stuttering, blushing mess" was up to. To her constant surprise, the letter was reprimanding the rogue for not keeping in touch. Again. She quickly disposed of her grin, and letter, deciding not to send a reply quite yet, making a mental note that she was vicious and heartless. Well, actually, she thought herself to be quite hilarious.

Sarimah wondered how long ago it had been that she met Shaelyna. A few months ago, six years after the massacre of Silvermoon. The rogue was surprised she that she had never met the girl before then-then again, Sarimah is a rogue, and Shaelyna is not. Different circles. The dark girl whistled under her breath while she ventured into the Farstriders' Square, where she would find her contact and probe for a contract. She kept her chin up stubbornly while inevitably passing patrolling guards and arcane constructs until she spotted Sunquiver.

Sunquiver made Sarimah's own rigid demeanor appear lax. He seemed to always be standing at full salute, his aged muscles protruding slightly beneath his mail armor and colors. The girl instinctively relaxed when around the old goat, if only because she knew he was a lot like her own father, after all, they had been best friends. That same old goat gave her plenty of resistance when her plans to venture into the path of a rogue were made apparent to him. He gave her hell, and even threatened to have her arrested if she did not reconsider. Unfortunately for him, he was neither corrupt nor cruel enough to have her be arrested, since, as a Farstrider he was at least remotely aware of how prisoners of Silvermoon were not exactly people that anyone would envy.

His back was turned to her, and his jaded eyes were glued to the rangers in training; he let out an occasional grunt when he spotted a shot that he found to be exceptional. Sunquiver's hands were clasped tightly behind his back as he stood tall, with confidence that showed no trace of any fall of his people. Sarimah was eternally thankful for him just for relentlessly standing in that manner. Unlike rotten magisters that reeked of deception and cowardice, according to her anyway, his stance was easily more genuine, and not fueled by ego. Sarimah cleared her throat quietly as she moved to stand next to Sunquiver. She peered up at him, already being an inch or so shorter than most girls, and easily offered him one of her genuine smiles as she mimicked his stance. Her smile vanished soon enough when she caught him peering down at her from the corner of his eye, then nod slightly.

The two stood in silence, observing the rangers land shot after near impeccable shot on the targets, and for a moment, Sarimah found her head cocked to the side in slight wonder about the possibility of these protectors missing even if they wanted to. She was roused from her thoughts and stood in a more alert manner when she almost felt Sunquiver's voice rumble quietly, "It's been a while, Sungazer."

"It has, sir."

"How have you been?"

"Well," she closed her mouth for a moment, appearing to think thoughtfully, "I botched up my last job-"

"I know."

"...Ye-"

"That's not like you, Sungazer."

"I know, I ju-"

"I suggest that you either give yourself a thorough retraining, and then focus on the duties you sign up for. I cannot afford to vouch for you if you cannot take care of yourself. Furthermore, if you continue to prove that you cannot be trusted with the tasks you are getting paid to do, that's your credibility on the line."

She felt the tips of her ears, and cheeks glow bright pink, then croaked, "Y-yes sir." Her eyes were looking to the ground when she felt his arm gently brush up against her own. Coming from Sunquiver, this was as good as a reassuring pat on the back. Sarimah's eyes remained downcast for a moment, no sure of how she was going to inquire about a job right now, not if that was how their conversation began. Then she sighed, deciding this was no time to simply watch rangers shoot, she really was growing tired of taking time off, and perhaps she did need to run a thorough exercise routine for herself this week. Maybe she could sell some lessons...

"Sunquiver, are there any contracts for me this week?" she found herself gambling anyway.

"No," he almost growled, which in turn made her giggle.

"Oh come on, Gramps." He hated being called that.

"..."

"I sort of really need to get out of the city for a while, it seems the guards don't like losing bets in innocent games of-"

"I'd be hard-pressed to find anyone willing to be scammed, Sarimah."

"I don't have anything better to do, you know that."

Silence took over once again, except this time, Sarimah made it a point to quietly stare up at the rugged old face. She watched his expression remain absolutely neutral for a while, then slightly irritated, until he let out a gruff sigh, content to at least glare down at the girl from the corner of his eye again.

"At the moment," he huffed, his intimidating posture not shifting at all, "I am in need for a messenger to head to deliver a report in-"

"I'll do it."

"-Light's Trust."

"How much does it pay?" she beamed up at him, bouncing on the balls of her feet once before catching herself and resuming a more grave pose.

"Twenty when you accept the job, and twenty when-if," he glared at her, "-you return."

"Sunquiver..." she sighed, and he peered down at her again.

"You'll feel pretty rotten if something actually happens to me. Then what good will your sarcasm do you?"

"I'd ask you the same question, Sungazer, I hear you're quite merciless when you decide to ignite that flame," he grunted. She giggled once more.

"When do you need me to send this report of yours?"

"It's nothing urgent, and can wait a few days until I gather the proper intel."

"I'll check back in three days. Don't go signing any other agents," she teased. When she was met with no response the rogue shuffled closer to the old goat. Sunquiver had been a loyal friend to her father even after his death. The old Farstrider had been a sweet, albeit cold guardian to the girl since he found her staring down at 'her' Fallen. Her massacred family. The rogue did not really recall what she had said or done once he found, pulled her by the collar then turned her around to hug her comfortingly-except that she knew she did not cry. She felt she even owed him the desire she felt for revenge, and could not imagine what other path she would have turned to in seeking it. Sarimah was no saint, clearly, and had more than one crime riding on her conscience, but Sunquiver was her anchor, that one glimpse of a better past, and hopeful future, and a reminder that she owed it to herself not to descend into absolute chaos.

Sunquiver nodded quickly, standing in his place until she stepped away. "Take care until then, Sungazer," he muttered. Sarimah nodded at his words as she sighed and made her way towards Eversong for a run, and then breakfast.


End file.
